Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) Page 3

  Still, she was worried. What had the strange riders been doing in that cabin? Wasn’t what she had heard true? That riders loitering in this area without herds were suspect? And that bunch! She was well aware that only the presence of the mysterious Danny had prevented trouble, and some curious understanding there was between Danny and those men. Could they be working together? Could all of that have been an elaborate pretense to get him with the herd?

  * * *

  HOEY CANTERED HIS horse up to her and glanced at her sharply. “You all right? I was off looking in the other direction and just got back. We were all worried.”

  “I’m all right. Hoey,” she asked suddenly, “why are we following this route? Why don’t we go west to that valley? There’s grass there.”

  He seemed astonished. “Grass? There is? I can’t believe it! The last time I came over this trail it was a canyon of dust.” He paused, then said, “If there’s grass, of course we’ll go. I’ll turn the herd.”

  “Wait.” She hesitated, then shook away her doubts. “Hoey, we’ve a new rider.”

  “What?” He drew up, his face stiff. “Where’d you get him?”

  “I met him last night. There were some men in the cabin where we took shelter. He seemed to know them. A man named Casselman and one called Papago Brown.”

  “This rider knew them?” He seemed relieved, and Ruth watched him, puzzled and doubtful. “He’s probably a good hand. I’ll talk to him later. We can use the help.”

  The clouds did not leave, but hung low, bulging, and ominous. Yet it was not cool, but sultry with heat. Ruth kept again to the crests, yet was glad when the first of the herd spilled over into the canyon and headed for the thin trickle of the stream. They waded into it, scattering along the stream for three quarters of a mile, drinking, then moving out to crop the green grass.

  Calkins rode up to her. “Why not bed down here?” he asked. “Let ’em get their fill? They’ll drive easier tomorrow.”

  She moved back toward the chuck wagon and saw Laredo Lee already there, watching the cook make coffee. He looked up at her, a thin, sandy man with large freckles and cool blue eyes. He had been riding for the Circle G for three years and made the last drive with her father. “I hear you aim to make Ives foreman,” he said, glancing at her. “If you do, why figure to hire a man to take my place.”

  “I’d be sorry to lose you, Laredo,” she said sincerely. Then she turned on him. “Well, who would you want for foreman?”

  He grinned. “Why, this new man. Danny would do. The boys like him.”

  “Oh, no! Not him!” She accepted a cup of coffee and watched Hoey come riding up to the fire. He looked angry and he swung down from the saddle; then he walked over to her.

  “Look,” he said, “finding this grass an’ water is a break, but I happen to know there isn’t much of it. You are only halfway to Dodge and have rough country and trouble ahead. There’s no need to make this drive. I’ll buy your herd.”

  “You?” she was startled. “Why?” She looked up at him, puzzled. “For how much?”

  “Four dollars a head. Right here and now. In cash.”

  “Four dollars?” She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous! They will bring five times that in Dodge.”

  “If they are fat. If they get there. But what if you lose three or four hundred head?”

  Laredo Lee stood silent, watching Ruth with keen eyes. He wanted to speak, but was wise enough to know it was not the time. This was Ruth Gurney’s problem. A moment later Lee was stifling his grin in the coffee cup.

  “No, Hoey,” she replied calmly, “I’ll not quit now. These cattle started for Dodge and they will go to Dodge. My father never quit a trail drive in his life, and I won’t.”

  * * *

  IVES’S FACE HARDENED and grew impatient. “Ruth, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ into! Why, we haven’t hit the hard part yet! There’s Kiowas and Comanches up ahead, and that’s to say nothin’ of the rustlers.”

  “Boss,” Lee spoke softly, “Mr. Ives ain’t been over a trail with the G afore. He don’t know how we are.” The blue eyes were deceptively mild now as they looked at Hoey. “The G,” he explained, “figures it’s plumb salty. Why, we welcome a little brush with Indians. As for rustlers, we eat ’em up! The old man,” he added affectionately, “liked a good fight. Last couple of drives he put most of that on Lonigan’s shoulders.”

  “Well,” Ives snapped, “Lonigan ain’t here now! If he was,” he sneered so openly that Ruth looked at him in surprise, “he couldn’t do much!”

  “Maybe,” a new voice said, “you’re right. Again, maybe you’re not.”

  All turned. Calkins had come up, and several of the other hands, but it was Danny Lonigan who spoke. He stood alone in the middle of a little open space near the wagon, a tall young man, narrow in the hips and wide in the shoulder. He stood with his boots together, one knee slightly bent, his hands busied with rolling a cigarette.

  Hoey Ives stared. Slowly, doubt, dismay, and uncertainty colored his features. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

  “Why, you remember me, Hoey,” Lonigan said quietly, “I whupped the socks off you one time at a dance. That was afore you went away. You were trailin’ with that big Casselman then, an’ figured it made you some tough. You’ll recall it didn’t help you none.”

  Ives’s lips tightened and his eyes grew cold. “So you came back, did you? Well, I’m the boss here now. You work for the G, you work for me.”

  “No,” Lonigan said quietly, “I work for the lady boss. She’s the Circle G, Ives, and from the way she stopped you on that offer to buy her out, I reckon she’ll do to ride the river with. The old man,” he said, “evidently bred true. I’ll ride for her, Ives. Not for you.”

  “I reckon that speaks my piece,” Laredo Lee interposed quietly.

  “And mine,” Calkins said.

  Hoey Ives’s face flushed. Then he laughed, “Well, that’s fine! I wanted to be rid of you! I’ve got a bunch of boys ready to take over, and I’ll have them in here by sundown. You boys can pack your duffle and hit the trail.”

  “No.”

  Ruth Gurney spoke in a clear, definite voice. All eyes turned to her. “Calkins told me something the other day that I’ve been thinking of. He said it was the hands that made the brand, the men who fought for it, worked for it, bled for it. They had a stake in the brand, and it was something above and beyond ownership. I believe that.

  “Hoey, I’m sorry. You’ll have to step out of your job. I want you with us, but not in charge of the work. I’ve made my decision and I’ll abide by it.” She turned her head. “Calkins, you take over. You’re the foreman for the rest of the drive.”

  “But…?” Calkins started to protest when Lonigan cut him short.

  “Take it,” he said briefly. “Let’s move!”

  “All right,” Calkins said, pointing, “roll the wagon into that hollow under the cliff. We’ll bed down here and roll ’em up the trail tomorrow.”

  Hoey Ives turned abruptly and stalked angrily away. Ruth took a step as though to follow, then turned back to the wagon. Her eyes met those of Lonigan. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” she demanded impatiently. “I’d heard of you.”

  “What could I have said?” he shrugged. “Anyway, I’m with the drive again, and workin’ with the G.” He glanced at her quizzically. “Or am I?”

  “Ask Calkins,” she returned sharply. “He does the hiring!”

  * * *

  THROUGHOUT THE DAY she saw no more of Ives, although she knew he was about. The hands rested when they were not riding herd, all but Danny Lonigan. He cleaned his guns carefully, then his rifle. After that he went to work and repaired a wooden bucket that had been broken a day before, and mended a halter. Several times he mounted and rode up to the rim of the canyon and sat there, studying the country.

  Calkins stopped by her seat just before sundown. “What do you think, Calkins? Will we get the herd through?”

  He hesi
tated, then nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up, but I think so. Maybe this grass won’t hold, but we’ll chance it, although come rain we’d have to get to high ground. If there’s much of this grass, we’ll make it, all right. But it will be a tough squeeze and you won’t make much money.”

  Lonigan walked slowly over to them, and as he drew near, he removed his sombrero. “Ma’am,” he said, “I couldn’t but overhear what was said. If…if you’ll let me make a suggestion…”

  “I hope,” Ruth said with dignity, “that I am always open to suggestions. Yes, you may. What is it?”

  “Why, just don’t sell your herd atall!” he said calmly. “Hang onto it. You’re gettin’ to Dodge at the bad end of the season; prices will be down and your herd in plumb bad shape. I’d say, hold your cows until next spring, hold ’em on Nebraska grass, then fetch ’em back to market, fat as ticks.”

  Ruth Gurney shook her head. “It is a good suggestion,” she admitted, “but I can’t. Until I sell this herd I can’t pay any of you. And I owe mortgage on the ranch.”

  Lonigan shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Ma’am, I know an hombre in Dodge who knows a good deal when he sees it. He’ll advance the money and take a mortgage on your herd. You can pay up when you sell out. You’ll have fat stock and the first market in the spring. Believe me, you’ll get twice what you could get with a good herd now, let alone this scrawny lot. And you’ll have calves,” he added.

  “Excellent idea,” Hoey Ives said quietly. He had come up unobserved. “In fact, that was what I planned to do…and what I’ll still do.”

  Four men were ranged behind him, four men with rifles. Two more stood by the wagon, facing toward the herd. While the riders had watched for horsemen they had slipped up on foot, working their way through the brush like Indians.

  Lonigan’s eyes went to the rifles, then the riflemen. “You’re tryin’ to get yourself killed, Hoey. Now take your boys and light a shuck.”

  Ives chuckled. “Oh, no! We’ve got our herd. When your boys hear us call, they’ll come in. They’ll never know what hit ’em!”

  “You mean,” Danny Lonigan’s voice was casual, “like this?” His hands flashed for his guns, and for one startled instant, every man froze. Then as one person, Ruth dropped to the ground and Ives, Calkins, and Lee grabbed iron.

  It was Lonigan’s sudden move that decided it. His first two shots knocked Casselman staggering and his third dropped Shain dead in his tracks. “Drop it, Short!” Lonigan yelled, and switched both guns to Papago Brown.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over and where the cannonade of guns had sounded there was stillness, and somewhere down the valley, a quail called plaintively in the late dusk. Gunpowder left an acrid smell that mingled with the wood smoke of the freshly built fire.

  * * *

  DANNY LONIGAN LOOKED down at Hoey Ives. Caught in the crossfire of Calkins’s and Lee’s guns, he had been riddled with bullets before he could more than fire his first shot.

  Ruth, lying on her face, had a rifle on the two startled men near the wagon. The cook held an old muzzle-loading Civil War rifle on them, too.

  Calkins swore softly. “You oughta give a man warnin’, Lonigan,” he objected. “That was too sudden. They might have got us all!”

  “Nuh-uh,” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I noticed that they were depending on the warning of the rifles. They didn’t really expect anybody to take a chance. You see,” he grinned grimly, “I noticed that none of their rifles were cocked! I knew I could get off several shots before they could cock and aim again.”

  “Yeah,” Laredo said, “and what about Ives? What did you think he’d be doin’?”

  “What he is doin’,” Lonigan said quietly. “You see, I’ve rode the trail with you hombres before. Nobody needed to tell me what would happen. I knew.”

  He turned his head and looked at Olin Short. “You,” he said, “would have sided me to help Miss Gurney in the cabin that night. I didn’t want to kill you. Get your horse and slope. Take those others with you. And don’t let ’em cross the trail again. As for you, Short, at heart you’re too good a man for an outlaw. If you’re down in Texas, stop by the G.”

  When he was gone, Lonigan turned to Ruth, who had got shakily to her feet, keeping her eyes averted from the fallen men. Taking her arm, he led her away from them, and away from the fire.

  “We’ll do what you said,” Ruth said finally. “We’ll drive to Nebraska and feed the stock there. Would you,” she hesitated, “would you consider the foreman’s job? I mean, in Calkins’s place?”

  “Why, no, I wouldn’t.” She turned toward him, half in surprise, half in regret. “No, I like Calkins, and he’ll make a good foreman. The men like him, too. Besides, I’ve other plans.”

  “Oh.” The word sounded empty and alone. “I…I hoped we’d see more of each other. You see, Dad…”

  “We’ll see more of each other, a lot more. When you put Hoey out as foreman and Calkins in, and again when you hit ground and grabbed that rifle, you showed what I said was right, that the old man bred true. You got what he had. You’ve nerve; you’ve iron in you. It’s a line that should be carried on, so I’m not goin’ to be your foreman. I’m goin’ to marry you.”

  She blinked.

  “Just like that? Without any…”

  “Courtin’?” He grinned. “Ma’am, there’s no preacher this side of Dodge. Believe me, by the time you get there you’ll be well courted, or my name ain’t Lonigan!”

  “Don’t I get a chance to say yes or no?” she protested.

  “You can say yes,” he said, “if you say it fast, but for the next thirty minutes you’re goin’ to be busy.” He put her chin up and his arm around her. “Mighty busy,” he said softly.

  Somewhere down the valley a quail called plaintively into the darkness, and the stream chuckled over the stones. It probably had considerable to chuckle about.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  THE BUNKHOUSE

  In the earliest days ranch buildings were apt to be whatever could be thrown together in a hurry, and they often looked it. Corrals were usually made of poles cut from the nearest trees, often those growing along some nearby creek. Later, when time and money permitted, the ranch house was enlarged and often a bunkhouse was built to accommodate the regular hands, which might number from two to twenty, depending on the size of the ranch and the season. At round-up time there was a demand for additional help.

  There would be rows of bunks, usually two-tiered, along the wall or walls, a table, and some benches or chairs. Depending on when and where the bunkhouse was built, it might have a fireplace or a potbellied stove, and also depending on where the ranch was, there might be an outside mirror and a small stand for a water bucket and basin. Nearby would hang a roller towel.

  Depending on the nature and upbringing of the cowboys, the bunkhouse might be neat or untidy, but there was often a former soldier or sailor who, due to training, kept his possessions in one place and his bunk made up. There was also apt to be old coats hanging from pegs or nails along the walls, coal-oil lamps with reflectors, a worn pack of cards and perhaps a checker-board and dominoes for entertainment, when there was time for it. Bedding was usually furnished by the ranch, but a good many drifting cow punchers carried their own. Most bunkhouses were simply places to sleep, but cowboys often added their own ideas of decoration to make them more homelike.

  Owners and cowhands ate at the same table on most ranches, and there was little conversation. Eating was a serious business, and the hands usually washed up, slicked down their hair, and headed for the table. Once the meal was finished, they went back to the bunkhouse to sleep, or perhaps for some talk around the corral.

  The larger the ranch, in most cases, the greater the distance between the owner or superintendent and the working hands. On many ranches the wife of the boss—and his daughters, if he had any—put the food on the table and often cooked the meals.

  These practices varied w
idely, depending on the situation and the attitude of the owner and his family. On the larger ranches a cowhand might never see the inside of the big house, nor did he particularly wish to. The cowboy had his own pride and did not wish to intrude or be intruded upon. Although he might have only a “ten dollar horse and a forty dollar saddle,” the idea that he might not be the equal of any man never entered his head, and if there were any doubt about it, he could always get up on his horse and ride off into the sunset.

  Young people being what they are, there no doubt were cases when a cowhand married the boss’s daughter. But then, as now, the boss was usually looking for an advantageous marriage for his daughter and a drifting cowhand was not likely to be among those considered. If there was not a likely young man on a nearby ranch, there was always the chance of meeting one after cattle sales in Kansas City or Denver, where wealthy cattlemen often congregated to relax away from the ranch. The Brown Palace Hotel in Denver was for many years just such a mecca for cattlemen and their families.

  REGAN OF THE SLASH B

  * * *

  DAN REGAN CAME up to the stage station at sundown and glanced quickly toward the window to see if the girl was there. She was. He stripped the saddle from his horse and rubbed the animal down with a handful of hay. Lew Meadows came down from the house and watched him silently.

  “You don’t often get over this way,” Meadows said, pointedly.

  Dan Regan paused from his work and straightened, resting a hand on the sorrel’s withers. “Not often,” he said. “I keep busy in the hills.”

  Meadows was curious and a little worried. Dan Regan was a lion hunter for the big Slash B outfit, but he was a newcomer to the country, and nothing much was known about him. There were too many men around the country now, too many that were new. Tough men, with hard jaws and careful eyes. He knew the look of them, and did not like what that look implied.